


trinity

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, for real though i cant figure out whether to use contemporary or authentic dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5021728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most lovers have one beginning; they have three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trinity

**Author's Note:**

> i'm out of practice. forgive me. 
> 
> also - historical accuracy is bullshit; therefore i'm working with the apparent musical timeline of "mulligan, lafayette, and laurens are all best buds before hamilton comes along" - and i was torn as to whether to give them a more contemporary dialect; i decided to just go with it. if i'm not being true to reality, i can at least be true-ish to the show? right?
> 
> finally - there isn't necessarily continuity between the three of these. or there could be. that's up to you.

i.   
JL & Md.L

 

-

 

They can’t quite define the first time it happens; they’ve often enough spent late nights together in a pub, shoulders pressing against each other as drink and laughter heat their blood; in the company of Hercules Mulligan or some other hopeful-eyed revolutionary spirit—sometimes with a whole ragtag group, and sometimes with no one but each other. Maybe it starts the time when Laurens teases his tongue along the line of Lafayette’s jaw on some silly drunken dare, or else the night that Laurens ventures an especially saucy remark and Lafayette rewards him with a nip on the ear, or perhaps one of the countless occasions on which they bid each other farewell with Lafayette’s lips pressed to Laurens’s forehead, lingering a few heartbeats longer each time.

Or it could be one blustery, colder-than-fair evening—just a few days before they’ll be teasing Aaron Burr and find themselves interrupted by a young man with bright eyes and a too-eager mouth—when they’re drinking with Mulligan, and Lafayette orders whiskey on top of their usual wine.

Laurens is leaning into his friend’s shoulder, his pulse lighting with the lulling sparks of his own drink--the empty mugs in front of him started to blur a good while ago, and his mind is now coerced into meandering nothingness by the swell of sound around them, the murmur and flame of tipsy laughter. He’s warm enough to forget the whipping winds outside; he nuzzles into Lafayette and lets his eyes drift half-shut.

“...Aren’t even _listening_ to me, blasted starry-eyed Frenchman,” Mulligan is grumbling.

Lafayette chuckles, and his shoulder shifts beneath Laurens’s cheek as he reaches out to lift a glass to his lips. “Maybe because you have nothing good to say.” His accent purrs. “You have three pints and you talk only of stitching pants; it is exhausting. Look--you have put him to sleep.”

“Not sleepin’,” Laurens mumbles, his eyelids slipping yet farther down. Another laugh stirs against him, and a long warm arm reaches out to loop around his shoulders, pulling him closer and steadier.

“Barely.” Lafayette’s lips ghost over his hairline.

“You know, you _could_ bring that to another room,” Mulligan says loudly--despite his exasperation, Laurens can hear the smile in his tone. “’Specially as you don’t want to hear another word from me, apparently.”

“Nothing personal,” Laurens slurs as his eyes droop all the way shut. “You’re just. Boring. Sometimes.”

“Wouldn’t be if we had a damn other thing to talk about, would I? ’Cept the revolution needs fresh face if it wants to survive the winter--not much else to be said there. And you two are too busy falling all over each other to—”

Laurens scrambles into a straighter posture, blearily assembling his features into an expression of indignancy. “We are not _falling over each other,_ ” he begins as sharply as possible, leveling a glare at the smirking Mulligan—his words are somewhat marred by a breathless _“Merde”_ as Lafayette, unsettled by his sudden movement, slips and nearly falls out of his chair, saved only by a lucky grab at the edge of the table.

“Jesus,” Mulligan groans. “You two’ll be _spent_ tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Laurens objects as he snatches up Lafayette’s wine glass and finishes it off himself, “we will make a difference--tomorrow, the people will... oh....” The room is spinning in about forty different directions.

“...Right.” Mulligan leans across the table and snatches up the glass an instant before it falls from Laurens’s fingers. “Bedtime, bucko.”

“Nah....” But, whether through his own will or otherwise, Laurens is somehow getting to his feet. _There’s a back room,_ someone says, and he’s leaning against a shoulder again--Lafayette’s, he hopes--winding with broad, lazy steps around the pub’s tight-clustered tables, past flickering candle flames that drag at the corners of his eyes, and through a doorway--all at once, things are far quieter. Warm hands at his sides, and then he’s sitting on a bed, slumping down, coming to a rest with his cheek against the rough stitch of a mattress cover. It’s darker in here, away from the candles--only deep sepia tones wash over his eyes, flowing as abstract as nighttime clouds.

“...That was rude,” Laurens murmurs.

“He thinks we are too... hm.” Lafayette’s voice, and then his weight on the mattress beside him. A lazy smile finds its way to Laurens’s lips.

“You think we are?”

“...Maybe.”

“Mm... c’mere.”

Something stirs through the vast sensation-thick darkness; warmth brushes against Laurens’s thigh and then there’s a hand cupped around his cheek, tilting up his chin. Lazy wine-scented breath tickles his lips.

“We aren’t all that bad,” he muses.

“Could be worse.”

“Wanna be worse?”

“...Gladly.”

He tastes like wine, too--strong and soft, and his mouth steals Laurens’s breath away until they’re both back against the mattress, Lafayette lying across him—Laurens nips at his lower lip and Lafayette’s tongue teases along the edge of his teeth; his chest aches with fullness—he’s warm and hazy and he can’t quite remember how to make his lungs move, but he’s content in his dizziness.

“...S’nice,” Laurens sighs.

“But you are too tired?”

“M’not....”

Lafayette withdraws, despite Laurens’s tiny whine of protest. But then there’s a hand on his head, long fingers twining through his hair, and relaxation dusts over him; the room’s spinning faster than ever, but he’s too drowsy to care, too rich with sweet, heated contentment.

“Let’s do that more often,” Laurens half-begs as his consciousness narrows into oblivion.

_“Bien sûr.”_

  
  
  


ii.

AH & JL

 

-

 

The woods are frostbitten, heavy with the dark harrowing trunks of trees, haunted by snickering ice and the damp breath-clouds of the men traipsing through them. The moon is careless, and she casts no light upon the scrawny regiment—down now to thirty-two men, panting as they lead their staggering horses through mile after mile of unrelenting snow.

Hamilton keeps close pace with the general, hurrying along on his feet as Washington sits atop his chuffing white stallion. His thighs burn, and sweat salts his skin beneath the harsh folds of his uniform, but he forces himself, as always, to pay no regard: there’s only each step through the darkness, _foot forward, foot forward_ —and, though he fights not to let it consume the forefront of his mind, the soft hungry smolder that keeps the blood hot in his veins. It’s times like this, dredged in exhaustion and monotony, that the thoughts nudge at him most insistently: unwilling hints of bright smiles, chestnut hair, soft hands and broad laughs and—shit— _foot forward, foot forward, foot forward._ A flush sinks past his cheeks, down to his neck, thankfully hidden by the shadow of the night.

After what feels like several more hours, Washington’s horse pulls to a halt with a snort—the general has one hand in the air. Hamilton pauses, and his legs buzz with the shock of stillness as those behind them stutter their way to a standstill.

“We stop here for the night,” Washington declares, indicating a small clearing ahead of them, snow-stained as any of the rest. “Spread the word, Hamilton.”

“Sir.” Nodding, he turns and starts off down the line, firing the message off every five officers or so—“We camp here. Take out your tents; we’re calling it a night. No farther til morning, everyone.”

At the end of the line, a voice snags him back. “It doesn’t look better here than anywhere else—”

“Then you can feel free to keep walking, Lee,” another, cheerier tone interjects, and Hamilton feels the flush fly back into his cheeks. He clears his throat and tries to look busy as the line disperses, but his preoccupation with sliding his hands in and out of his pockets doesn’t stop John Laurens from wasting no time in striding to his side.

“You seem restless,” he notes.

Hamilton clears his throat. “Long walk.” _Shit._ Was that too loud?

“Hey, man....” A hand on his shoulder. _Oh._ “You alright?”

_I’ve never had that long to think about you without interruption before—it’s such a cold damn night and I can’t get it out of my head how much warmer you could make it; I’m probably just tired, but then again, I’m always tired—are you just going to leave your hand there—alright—?_

“Alex?”

_Oh, fuck._

“All there, buddy?” Laurens cracks a smile. “Really long walk, seems like.”

“...It was.”

“We should set our tent up.”

“Yeah. We should.”

Laurens’s eyes catch in a brief glint as he turns away—amber—and the heat of his fingers lingers on Hamilton’s shoulder as he pulls away, lopes over to his horse, and begins unhooking saddlebags. Hamilton takes several seconds to swallow, readjust the loose strands of his ponytail, and bounce a couple of times on his heels to ensure that blood is still circulating to his strangely foggy head. By the time he joins Laurens, the smaller man already has their wooden tent poles hoisted over his shoulders. His face is flush with cold, and a few snowflakes have settled in the waves of his hair.

“Steady enough on your feet to help me with this?” he teases as he brushes by Hamilton’s shoulder. Hamilton blinks, then snatches up the remaining blankets and tarp, scowls, and hurries after him.

“I’m _steady_ on my _feet.”_

“Right... just worn out.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Not getting at anything.” Laurens’s tone is mild. He stops at a corner pressed close against the trees, and so half-shaded from the heaviest of the snowfall—he kicks at the white heaps a bit halfheartedly, then swings the poles over and hammers each of them hard into the ground with the flat of his hand. He steps back, contemplates his handiwork, and shrugs. “Well, that wouldn’t hold up in a two-mile wind, but I doubt we’re even getting that tonight.”

Hamilton hands off their bedrolls to Laurens, who positions them between the poles, then tugs their patched tarp over them. He keeps his hands busy, savoring the distraction of finally having a job to accomplish.

“You know,” Laurens muses, stepping back as Hamilton tugs out a pouch of stakes and begins to boot the tarp into the ground, “you could be sleeping with Washington in that portable palace of his. Now that you’re his favorite little—”

“I’m fine here,” Hamilton cuts across. “Maybe on—future—well. He didn’t expect for me to join him on this march. So. I’ll stay with you. Not bother him.”

“...You’re _entirely_ sure that you’re not getting sick or something?”

Hamilton makes the mistake of turning around, and Laurens is a good deal closer than he expected—his heart catapults into his throat at the amber eyes’ unexpected proximity, and he tries to breathe as easily as possible as Laurens lifts a hand, presses it against his forehead.

“You do feel a bit warm—”

“Can we talk?”

Laurens blinks. “Of course.”

“Alright—alright—listen—let’s—here.” Hamilton pulls away and strides into the woods; there’s a slight hesitation, then the crunching of Laurens’s footsteps behind him.

“You’re not gonna pull me somewhere back here and murder me, are you? I know we’re all hungry, man, but cannibalism is a little—”

“Oh, shut up,” Hamilton mutters, and is rewarded by a sharp twinge of his stomach when Laurens’s floating laugh assails his ears. A few moments later, and they’re far enough to have escaped the sound of the rest of the encampment. There’s only them, the snow, the moonlight, the trees.

Hamilton stops walking, and Laurens’s footsteps cease from behind him a moment later.

“Really, though, what’s up? You—”

“—John—”

He turns around and looks at him full-on for the first time all night. Laurens is pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, more snow than ever clustered in the loose curls around his forehead, a curious smile still playing around his lips. His eyelashes cast long, long shadows in the half-light of the moon and stars.

“...Alexander.”

“Oh, shit,” Hamilton whimpers, and they step towards each other in the same moment—one of them moves a hand, the other tilts his head, and all at once Hamilton, despite being surrounded by miles of snow, can’t remember what the cold feels like. Both of his hands are cupped around Laurens’s jaw, their noses are brushing together, and he’s kissing him with all the rampant ferocity of the last barely-restrained weeks, all the long sighing nights of lying together in the tent, nestled not quite close enough, or sitting nearby at the cookfire, sharing only quiet glances and wordless smiles while those around them sang and reveled—it’s all coming together now, and Hamilton can’t feel his legs—he would be stumbling to the ground if not for Laurens’s arm around his waist, holding them tight together; he tastes of nothing but heat, the night is quiet but the thudding of Hamilton’s own pulse deafens him, and for a wild, raging, impossibly long and too-short moment, he thinks he knows what victory feels like.  

Dizziness is sweeping through him in great arcs now, and his feet slip for a moment--Laurens curses against his lips, and he pulls back in a rush, heaving in messy lungfuls of air.

“John—?”

“Stepped on my foot—”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I—”

“Shh—”

Laurens grabs Hamilton’s chin with one hand and his ponytail with the other and drags him in—Hamilton lets out a tiny moan as they stagger together, close to falling before Laurens’s back finds purchase against a tree trunk. Hamilton presses in closer, his fingers now snatching at his partner’s collar.

The minutes snarl by, hands on waists and thighs, tongues and teeth teasing necks and ears--it’s only when Laurens presses a sharp, almost kitten-like nip into Hamilton’s collarbone, eliciting a sharp yelp, that they pause.

“Too hard?”

Hamilton blinks as the woods blur back into existence around them—his cravat is untied, he realizes, and he pulls his hands back from Laurens’s shoulders, hastening to fix it. “No—no, not at all—I just—”

Their eyes find each other again, and hold for a long moment. Laurens seems is practically glowing, his cheeks aflame and his eyes fever-bright, copper hair fallen loose, and Hamilton’s chest aches.

“...Washington?” Laurens finally offers.

“Yes. Right. He’ll be wondering where I—and we should sleep—”

“Sleep?” Laurens repeats, cocking a single eyebrow. Hamilton’s stomach dives.

“Um—”

“—Tonight, maybe.”

“Yeah. Because—”

“Early start tomorrow—”

“War to fight—”

“All that.”

Hamilton swallows, glances back in the direction of the camp. The wind is cool on his cheeks, but it’s pleasant, refreshing.

“Hey....”

“Hm?” He turns back. Laurens is watching him appraisingly, his head tilted to the side, that same damned playful smirk brushing his lips.

“So this is why you were so... like that earlier?”

“I—”

“That’s precious.”

“Shut up!”

“It is!” Laurens swings over and throws an arm around Hamilton’s shoulders, grinning from ear to ear as he starts them back towards the camp at a trot. “You’re worse than a lovesick schoolgirl.”

“I am not.”

“Trust me--I’ve known my share of them, and you are—”

“You--what does _that—?”_

Laurens snickers and dodges Hamilton’s indignant swat. “Nothing—”

“That didn’t mean nothing—!”

“Hush up.” Laurens catches Hamilton’s chin at the tips of his fingers, tilts it towards him for a moment. Hamilton freezes as Laurens presses a quick but insistent kiss to his surprised lips—they’re only a thin stretch of trees from the camp, now, and his chest thrums with the risk of proximity. “There,” Laurens murmurs, pulling back. “You’re fine.”

None of the other soldiers can quite understand how, throughout the rest of the bitter-cold, snow-laden night, neither of the two young officers can shake a lingering, irrepressible smile.

 

iii.

Md.L & AH

 

-

 

_“Ah, fils de pute! Vous bâtards—sors de la manière, bon Dieu—merde!”_

Steel slashes the air a breath from Lafayette’s neck, and he curses twice as loudly, yanking the reins of his protesting horse and wheeling around. Scarlet coats and blood are splashing the field, overwhelmingly thick—biting down on the hard hot dust of the air, he canters fast through a brief opening in the expanse of foot soldiers. They dodge out of his way, shouting and shrieking as his horse’s heavy hooves slice dangerously near their skulls. Lafayette pays them no regard—he sits high in his saddle, quick eyes scanning the battlefield. It’s a mess--chaos as the British soldiers bowl his own troops over, drive them to the dirt.

_“Bon sang—”_

A whistle and spurt of gunfire. He ducks—someone calls a name that may be his—and then the world turns inside out; his breath is gone as the red and blue flashes past his eyes at triple speed—his horse screams, the hilt of his own sabre is jabbing into his ribs and he would swear if he had the breath for it—his body hits the ground in three hard whacks—shoulders, tailbone, feet—his head rings.

The sky is perfectly blue. Clouds fat and lazy and lagging. His own heart roars in his ears, beating faster and stronger than a war drum—he can’t move. Every muscle is paralyzed, aching and bellowing where it collided with the hard-caked ground.

The sun is directly overhead. Burns his eyes, but he can’t seem to close them.

_“Lafayette!”_

That’s his own name, he recognizes distantly. A voice cracked with shock, with fear—unusual. He tries to breathe, but his lungs seem to have collapsed into two dimensions. Every bone in his body is ringing like a stricken xylophone.

“Lafayette—” A rush of footsteps. It’s only through their noisiness that he realizes that the sounds of battle have half-fallen away—how long has he been here...? There’s no crowd around him at all, only the faint thunder of hooves and boots echoing through the ground and into his skull.

“Lafayette, oh God.” Something obscures the bright sun. Slowly, achingly, he blinks, and the face that swims into view is a familiar one—dirt-stained, one lip bloody, long dark hair plastered against the temples and cheeks with sweat, but eyes as clear as ever, peering hard into his as a hand flies to his shoulder, shakes it urgently. “Are you alright? Where are you hurt?”

Air burns when he drags it through his chest. Manages to shake his throbbing head—Hamilton swallows, nods and pulls back—his hands are moving across Lafayette’s chest, now his side, searching for blood—yet they come up dry, clean in the sour sunlight. Hamilton’s eyes flicker from his palms to Lafayette’s hazy eyes, questioning, desperate.

“You...?”

Air. There it is. “Just... winded.”

Hamilton’s jaw drops in what might be a tiny laugh. “Just _winded?”_

“...Horse got shot.”

“I saw you—from a distance—I thought you—”

“What, thought they had killed me?” Lafayette heaves an aching smirk onto his face, and, wedging an elbow beneath himself, manages to half-sit up, disregarding Hamilton’s flood of half-articulate protests.

“Don’t strain—”

“You are going to tell me to not _strain_ myself?” He raises his eyebrows, and Hamilton hesitates before letting out a reluctant sigh, his hands falling back to his thighs. He’s kneeling, on edge, rocking slightly back and forth with apparent anxiety.

“I just—you—damn it—”

Then his hand at the front of Lafayette’s jacket, dragging him closer, and their mouths collide in a hot, sharp slam—Lafayette stiffens for a moment, but Hamilton is insistent, and he’s just beginning to relax into the demand of the kiss when Hamilton withdraws, bright red but hard-eyed.

“Be more careful,” he growls.

“It is hardly a matter of—”

“I know, I know—I just—God.” Hamilton takes Lafayette’s face in his hands, pulls him in and rests his lips against his forehead for a long moment—Lafayette can hear his pulse, fluttering like a bird’s.

“You need not _worry_ so.”

“Yes, I do—I—”

Lafayette lifts a hand to cup Hamilton’s jaw and delivers a brief kiss on the cheek before pressing him away. When Hamilton’s confused eyes meet his, he does his best to twist on a reassuring smile.

“The battle is still being fought?”

“Yes—well—as you never called a retreat—”

“...Of course.”

“You can stand?”

_“Yes,_ Alexander.” Despite his tone, it’s with no small amount of painstaking difficulty that he straightens up properly, snatches up his sword and pulls himself to his feet. Being flung from the back of a horse and straight into the rock-hard ground, he decides, isn’t an experience he’s keen to repeat. Glancing about, he determines that his injured horse is nowhere in sight—likely got grazed and bolted. Damn it. He adjusts his grip on the hilt of his weapon, flexes a shoulder, and extends a hand, which Hamilton grasps to heave himself to his own feet.

“Back to it,” Lafayette declares, turning.

Hamilton claps a hand to his shoulder. “Let’s go.”


End file.
